


You're Good Medicine

by sconesandtextingandmurder



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Fic, Community: hoodie_time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sick Dean Winchester, Sickfic, cas takes care of him, dean has the flu, hoodietime olympics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-11 19:53:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconesandtextingandmurder/pseuds/sconesandtextingandmurder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just your basic Dean has the flu and Castiel takes care of him fic....</p><p> </p><p>Dean wanders into the kitchen just then.  “First of all, I’m not sick.  Second of all, why would I knowingly let anyone inject me with a virus?  And second of all, I am not sick.”</p><p> “Third of all,” says Cas.</p><p> “What?”</p><p> “You already said second of all.”</p><p> “No, I didn’t.”</p><p> “Also, you said you weren’t sick twice. “  Cas adds seriously.  “I believe Shakespeare referred to that as protesting too much.”</p><p> “Jesus, no wonder my head hurts.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Good Medicine

 

 

“Ok, on a scale of common cold to Croatoan, how sick are you?” Sam asks peevishly and it all falls into place for Castiel.  The way Dean had hesitated, blinking his eyes at the ghoul, letting Sam step in and finish it off (“Just checking your reflexes, Sammy,” he’d said by way of thanks) and the way he’d pulled over halfway home and asked Sam to drive and the way he’s still sitting slumped in the Impala now that they’re back at the bunker.

 

“I’m not sick.  I just have a headache.”

 

“ _Right_.”  Sam gets out of the car and starts to unload the trunk.  Cas waits for Dean to follow, but he remains in the front seat with his eyes closed. 

 

“Are you all right, Dean?” Cas asks from the back seat.

 

“It’s just a headache. No big deal.” Dean’s muttering as he rests the side of his head against the window. “Do angels even get headaches?  Like your halo feels too tight or something?” 

 

“Dean, that’s not how…” begins Cas.

 

“Just go.  I’m fine.”

 

Cas finishes the unloading before seeking out Sam in the kitchen.

 

“I’m concerned about Dean.”  To Castiel’s surprise, instead of sharing his concern, Sam snorts.

 

“It's his own damn fault.  I told him to get a flu shot and he steadfastly refused.  Now he’ll deny being sick until he keels over.  Maybe that will teach him.”

 

Dean wanders into the kitchen just then.  “First of all, I’m not sick.  Second of all, why would I knowingly let anyone inject me with a virus?  And second of all, I am not sick.”

 

“Third of all,” says Cas.

 

“What?”

 

“You already said second of all.”

 

“No, I didn’t.”

 

“Also, you said you weren’t sick twice. “  Cas adds seriously.  “I believe Shakespeare referred to that as protesting too much.”

 

“Jesus, no wonder my head hurts.”

 

Dean takes a beer from the fridge and sits on the couch but he's not drinking it so much as pressing the coolness of the bottle to his temples.  Cas finds the Tylenol and takes it to him. 

 

"Perhaps two of these might help?"  Dean sits up and Cas feels a wave of heat come off him, like standing too close to the first flare of salted bones.  Dean's cheeks are flushed, but the rest of his face is pale, his freckles standing out in stark contrast.  Cas instinctively reaches to put a hand on his forehead, but Dean bats it away.  

 

"I'm fine."  He pours some of the Tylenol into his hand--definitely more than the recommended dosage--then washes them down with beer. Cas looks scandalized but before he can say anything, Dean hauls himself to his feet.  "But I am going to call it a night."

 

Cas watches him go, sees the way he's walking with his body held rigidly to minimize the pain of being upright.   Cas decides then that instead of spending the night in the library, which he’s taken to doing now that he no longer needs to sleep, he’ll bring a stack of books to his room and read with his door open.   This proves to be a good plan when shortly after midnight he hears Dean get up then fall to the ground with a clattering noise that suggests he’s taken his desk chair down with him.  Sam and Cas are out of their rooms at once and Dean doesn’t even object when they lift him back to bed, which concerns Cas almost more than the collapsing does.  

 

"Flu shot for the win." Sam says, mostly to himself.  Cas follows Sam into the hall.

 

"He has influenza?"  

 

"Yeah, I think--"

 

"Sam, this is very dangerous.  You weren't around in 1918."  Cas tilts his head slightly as he remembers the wave of prayers that burst forth from all parts of the Earth that year.  Prayers for healing, desperate shouted bargains, pleas soaked in grief all surging towards Heaven like a tsunami or a mushroom cloud.  

 

"Cas, it's different now.  We have antibiotics and--" Sam stops, knowing Cas would rather be armed with knowledge than brushed off with reassurances, and fills him in on what to look for: fevers that don't respond to the Tylenol, dehydration, pneumonia.  Cas takes it all in, nodding solemnly as Sam talks.

 

"I will stay with him.  I'm not at risk now that I have my grace back."  If he had his own grace, he would simply run a hand across Dean’s forehead and heal him.  His own grace had been seamless and fluid, it hadn’t been a part of him, but had _been_ him.  But this new, stolen grace doesn’t quite… _fit_.  It clumps in some places, leaves gaps in others.  If need be, he can end a life and he can restore one, but for smaller things, his powers betray a certain unpredictability that leaves him reluctant to use them.

 

Sam raises his eyebrows ever so slightly.  "Just so you know, he's not the world's best patient."

 

Cas goes back into Dean's room with another dose of Tylenol and a glass of water.  Dean has started to cough, even in his sleep, and it's a deep rattling sound that's painful to hear.  Cas props some pillows behind Dean to raise him up enough to take the medicine, then finds extra blankets to tuck around him when he complains about being cold.  He rights the desk chair and pulls it next to the bed.  Dean looks at him with glazed eyes.

 

"You don't have to stay here," he says and Cas begins to calculate how long it might take for him to fall asleep, how long before Cas can creep back in.  Dean settles into the pillows and closes his eyes. "But you can if you want." 

 

Cas goes still for a moment.  He knows Dean well enough to understand this is his way of asking him to stay.  The pleasure that comes with Dean wanting him near is tempered by Dean’s need for it.  (If Dean had come right out and said _Stay with me_ Cas would have probably urged Sam to call for an ambulance.) He sits in the chair and occupies himself by making a chart to keep track of Dean's temperature and his Tylenol schedule.  

 

When it’s time to check his temperature, Dean fights and thrashes making Cas question the human wisdom of placing a delicate glass stick filled with poison between an incoherent person's teeth.  In an attempt to keep him still, he discovers that a hand on Dean's forehead, run gently back through his hair, calms him.  When the three minutes are up and the thermometer removed, Cas is surprised to see Dean turn towards him, eyes closed, searching to regain their contact, so he dutifully records the temperature and pulls the chair closer to the side of the bed.  He keeps his touch soft and light, and watches as Dean’s breathing becomes slow and regular.

 

Despite Sam's warnings, Cas doesn't find Dean to be a difficult patient.  He's dealt with him when he's drunk and expected it to be a little more like that, but inebriation seems to amplify Dean-- ratcheting up the anger and the violence, making him loud and grandiose in word and action— and this sickness has the opposite effect.  While alcohol pushes Dean out of himself, as if through cracks formed on his surface, this illness pares him down, peeling away layers until he has nothing to fight against.  He's impulsive, still, pushing Cas' hand away and muttering _too hot_ the minute his fever breaks and Cas has to stop him from kicking off all the covers and climbing out of bed.   Mostly though, he's compliant.  When Cas tells him to lie down, he does.  When he tells him to try and sleep, he obediently closes his eyes.  It leaves Castiel unsettled; he’d much prefer it if Dean were brushing off his concern.  He should be stubborn and pig-headed and rolling his eyes at Cas.  Instead Dean looks at Cas and thanks him.  Tells him he shouldn't be so nice to him.  Strangely enough, this little bit of familiar self-deprecation buoys Cas' spirits.

 

****

As soon as he hears Sam awake in the morning, Cas brings him in for a consult, showing him his records.

 

 "I've listed his fluid intake, but he wouldn't give me any measurements of his output," he adds apologetically, and Sam's face clearly says that he could do without so much detail before he's had coffee.  

 

"Dean?" Sam calls from the doorway.  "You gonna live?"

 

"Fuck off, Sam." Dean's voice is hoarse and a lengthy coughing fit follows these words, but Sam claps a hand onto Cas' shoulder and tells him what a good job he's doing before making his way to the kitchen.

 

****

In the early afternoon, Cas brings in a glass of ginger ale and Dean struggles to raise himself on one elbow.  He looks at the glass, bubbling and fizzing on the night table, then calls to Cas who is tidying up the room.  

 

"Cas?"

 

"I'm right here, Dean."  Cas moves to the bedside so Dean can see him.

 

"I wish..."  

 

"What is it?"  Dean reaches for his hand and Cas is taken aback by seeing Dean like this, so unguarded and open.

 

"I wish..." Dean's eyes are rimmed with pink, they’re wide and round and childlike.  But the green is still glassy with fever and a single teardrop sparkles, caught in his lashes.  Whatever he wishes, Cas vows, he will make it come true. Dean glances at the ginger ale again.

 

"I wish I had a straw." 

 

Cas curses himself for not being able to fly.  He could go and pluck a reed from alongside the Red Sea, he could cut a stalk of sugar cane from a plantation in New Guinea. With effort, he stops his mind from whirling.   _He could go to the kitchen and look there._   He digs around the many drawers, pulls out a ball of string and packets of toothpicks before finally finding a single straw from Biggerson's, its paper wrapper limp and dusty, and he holds it triumphantly aloft. He takes the straw back down the hall and is rewarded by a look of absolute delight.  It’s a small victory, but one that doubles as a painful reminder that all of Dean's problems can't be solved so easily.  

 

****

He's there later in the day when the chills start.  He checks his notes but it's too soon for more Tylenol (and he's added liver damage to his list of things to worry about).  He watches as Dean curls himself into a ball, his arms and knees tucked against his chest, his teeth chattering and Cas doesn't hesitate.  He climbs into the bed and before he can even settle himself, Dean has moved towards him, drawn to the heat.  He pulls Dean close, holding him tightly and rubbing between his shoulder blades, feeling the way Dean's muscles are clenched and tensed as he tries to fight the shaking.  He holds him for a long time until the chills weaken into trembling and until the trembling stops and Dean is asleep, his head on Cas' chest.  Cas stays like that, closing his own eyes, just listening to him breathe (and cough) and feeling the heat come off his skin.   At one point he opens his eyes to find Sam standing in the doorway.  Cas know this isn't something Dean would normally tolerate, thinks maybe he should explain about the chills but Sam isn't looking at them with surprise or confusion.  There's a softness in his eyes and a small but genuine smile playing around his mouth.  

 

"I came in here to see if you needed a break, but..."

 

"I'm fine, thank you, Sam."

 

"I can see that.  Does he seem any better?"

 

Cas rests a hand on Dean's forehead.  It's cool and dry.  He checks the clock on the nightstand.  

 

"Yes.  I believe he does."

 

"You're good medicine," Sam says before he leaves.  

 

Cas waits until Dean rolls back to the other side of the bed before slipping out from under the covers and resuming his vigil from the desk chair.  His optimism is validated when Dean wakes, his eyes tired but clear.  He stretches then rubs both hands over his face.

 

"God, Cas, why don't you just smite me and put me out of my misery?"

 

Only with Dean Winchester would a wish for death be considered a return to normalcy. 

 

 "How reassuring that you are once again resuming your self-destructive ways.  You must be feeling better."  They share a comfortable silence until Dean speaks again. 

 

“Hey, thanks for taking care of me.”  He gestures vaguely towards the other side of the bed.  “And that was probably above and beyond…but, uh, it helped.”  Dean’s looking anywhere but at Cas now, and his eyes fall on the ginger ale glass.  “Oh, and yeah.  That straw.  I was really into that straw, huh?”

 

Cas smiles at him.  “You were.”

 

Dean yawns and pulls the covers back up to his chin.  “I think I’m going to sleep some more.”  He looks at Cas, a little shyly.  “But you can stay if you want.”

 

  


End file.
